


What Fools These Mortals Be

by Houseofmalfoy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Childhood Memories, Death Eaters, Flashbacks, Gen, Memory Loss, Narcissa Black Malfoy-centric, POV Narcissa Black Malfoy, Post-Second War with Voldemort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Trans Female Character, Trauma, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25516093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Houseofmalfoy/pseuds/Houseofmalfoy
Summary: Remembering what used to be hurts more than she'd like.
Relationships: Narcissa Black Malfoy & Harry Potter, Rabastan Lestrange & Rodolphus Lestrange & Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 13
Kudos: 28
Collections: Dumbledore's Armada: Wheel of Death Flash Fiction Comp





	What Fools These Mortals Be

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Wheel of Death Flash Fiction Comp hosted by Frumpologist in Dumbledore's Armada Discord Server. My chosen character was Narcissa Malfoy. My Wheel of Death prompts were Harry Potter, Memory Loss, Friendship, "Lord, what fools these mortals be" -Shakespeare.

_ 1969 _

Narcissa’s fourteen, flat on her back in the grass on the outskirts of Lestrange Manor’s grounds. Her best friends, the twins Rodolphus and Rabastan, are at either side of her, the three of them laughing until their stomachs hurt and the tears in their eyes have fallen into the grass. She doesn’t remember what was said, nor who said it, but it doesn’t matter.

The war feels miles away, so far from her and the family she’s found in the Lestranges that it doesn’t feel as if they’ll ever be touched; even when news surrounding it becomes more frequent, even when her sister brings up the name Voldemort more often now, Narcissa can’t and doesn’t want to imagine the three of them ever getting involved more than watching from a distance. 

oOo

_ 1971 _

Narcissa’s sixteen, watching as Rodolphus and Rabastan argue over who won their race with the new broomsticks their father gave them yesterday. Adrastia Lestrange, who to Narcissa feels as more of a mother than Druella Black ever did, is standing beside her with an arm on her lower back, looking at the boys with a fond smile. 

The twins far enough away for the two witches to talk without being overheard, Adrastia doesn’t shush her when Narcissa quietly asks if the war is coming closer or if she’s merely imagining it is. It’s a question she already knows the answer to.

“You’re not imagining anything, my dear,” Adrastia tells her, and the grip on Narcissa’s back tightens for a moment as to reassure her. “But it not yours to worry about, alright? You, the three of you, you’re not going to get involved; your father and I will make sure of it.”

Narcissa’s long stopped being surprised at being included in their family so easily, it’s become natural. Of course she’d be included in Adrastia and Raoul’s plans to move the twins to France; they’d never leave her behind. 

She and Adrastia discuss the future and she doesn’t feel as unsure about it as before.

Narcissa is to marry Rabastan, because she’s family already and she and Bastan look at each other as one looks at the stars; when they graduate Hogwarts, they will move to one of the Lestrange estates in France close to where the family stables are located, and though the Black family is too caught up to be safe these days, the Lestranges won’t get involved with the man who calls himself Voldemort but Raoul Lestrange knows from school as Tom Riddle. 

Narcissa smiles, and she has no doubt these things will come true. She looks forward to them.

oOo

_ 1973 _

Narcissa’s eighteen, and she kneels with the twins in front of their parents’ gravestone, nearly done with their seventh year Hogwarts. She’s eighteen when there’s no move to France, no wedding to Rabastan, and she’s eighteen when both the brothers get their dark marks. 

She’s nineteen when she marries Lucius, knowing he wears a mark just like the boys who are like brothers to her. Narcissa’s nineteen, too, when she realises just how hopeless they’ve all become.

oOo

_ 2000 _

After the second war, Narcissa had come to understand that there was a difference between knowing the past, and remembering it. 

She  _ knew  _ that Draco had received the dark mark, and she knew she had been present when it’d happened; she knew because the mark was a faded scar on his arm today, covered by daffodil tattoos Luna Lovegood had provided him with, and she knew because Draco had told her she was there. 

Narcissa  _ knew  _ too, that she hadn’t left the war unscathed. She knew she’d been the recipient of more than one curse, more than one angry pair of hands belonging to tired and frustrated death eaters with something to settle against her family. She knew because the scars adorning her porcelain-white skin told no lies. 

She  _ knew  _ that she had lied to the Dark Lord himself in order to save the life of the young man sitting before her; she knew she had done so in order to protect her son and her family. She knew this because the press had written all about it, and Harry Potter himself had thanked her as soon as he had had the chance.

Narcissa  _ remembered  _ none of it. 

She had begun to see a mind healer after the end of the war, urged to by her son after he’d been mandated counselling during his trial. Draco had been repulsed to the idea initially, much like Narcissa had been when he’d suggested it to her, but it hadn’t been long before he had been able to see the use of it. 

She wasn’t proud of how desperate Draco had been for her to find help, nor did she hold any pride in how long it had taken her to listen to him. Narcissa had made attempts at hiding just how much of the second war she failed to recall, did a rather good job at summoning her usual distant and cold exterior in order to make it seem she was alright, but her darling son had seen right through it. It was another thing she wasn’t proud of.

Proud she wasn’t, but she was glad for the unexpected friend she’d found in Harry Potter through the healing process.

Harry cared too much for others; felt too much responsibility for their well being. Narcissa thought it senseless to care so much, but couldn't hold it against him. They had only talked about his childhood briefly, because she could relate to it in her own way, and had discussed the pressure he experienced as the Chosen One in more detail because she understood that feeling. 

She enjoyed his company, too.

He'd reached out to her not too long after the war. After the trials of her family had been over, and Harry had spoken at all of them, no doubt being a factor in both her and Draco being granted their freedom instead of a prison sentence, he'd contacted her. 

Harry had wanted to thank her for the moment she'd saved his life that Narcissa no longer remembered; when she'd confessed to him as much, he'd taken it upon himself to visit more often. 

Narcissa watched the young man as he poured them both tea, a distant smile on her lips. She did appreciate his efforts. 

Over the past year, they'd talked, and then talked some more, about anything that might come up. Draco and his stumbling yet charming attempts at flirting with dear Luna Lovegood; PTSD, and the abysmal state of their world's understanding of it; Harry’s own happiness and concerns for his future with the Weasley girl; as well as the things Narcissa did remember about her own life.

“Would you have joined,” Harry asked now, breaking the silence that had fallen over them a they sipped their tea. “Would you have joined him, if you’d known everything that would come of it?”

“No one joins a side they know will lose,” Narcissa responded, a sharper edge to her voice than intended. Harry seemed unbothered.

She shook her head then, putting down her teacup to fold her hands in her laps. The second war might have faded from her memory — a response to trauma that Narcissa still thought utterly ridiculous as it brought her more anxiety than peace to know there were parts of her life that affected her to this day, that her memory provided no access to — but the first was not. Sometimes she wished it was.

Narcissa wondered if it would have been less painful to trade her memories of the first for what happened during the second. She was quite sure it would be.

“I wouldn’t have, nor would my friends.”

It hurt to remember her friends and her during the first war. Young, barely eighteen years old, hopeful and hurting and terrified and so naive that it was laughable. Narcissa could recall them clear as day before they’d joined: proud, filled to the brim with promise and potential that they would never manage to live up to. 

“Why did you?” Harry asked again, and this time Narcissa did not respond with snark. _ Why had they, indeed.  _

“We joined because we were fools,” she told him, not looking Harry’s way as she spoke. Her voice was distant, quiet, as she lost herself in memories of which she wasn’t always glad to still possess. 

They’d been fools, desperate to mask their own vulnerability, drunk on the idea of superiority and safety, dumb enough to believe they were making the right decision until the decision was made and it was too late to back out. Narcissa despised herself for it nearly as much as she hated Rodolphus and Rabastan. 

Her dearest friends since they’d all been five years old, the two brothers were as much her family as Bellatrix and Andromeda had been; Narcissa had grown up with them, had considered their parents to be her own, and she’d watch them tear themselves apart during the first war as she stood by the sidelines feeling more useless than ever before. 

Narcissa wished she didn’t remember the desperation in Rodolphus’ voice when he’d asked her, quietly and terrified with a brand-new dark mark on his forearm, if he’d might the right choice. She wished she didn’t remember the tremor in her own voice when she’d told him that she had no idea. 

She wished she didn’t recall her attempts at convincing herself they were going to be alright. Narcissa wished she couldn’t close her eyes and recall just how sure she’d been that the world the Dark Lord promised he’d build was going to be safe for her. She’d been a fool, desperate for approval and delusional enough she’d gain it by being perfect in pureblood society’s eyes, and by extension the Dark Lord’s world.

Growing up a trans woman in a world like theirs, approval and respect had seemed worth the struggles that would come with the Dark Lord’s cause; after losing Adrastia as her guardian and future mother-in-law, to Narcissa, anything had seemed worth not losing her own position in pureblood society. 

Looking back, she could see clearly that for the brothers their main motivation had been grief. Grief that made them feel useless and restless and so hurt and angry that anything but sitting at home away from the war felt a better use of their time and their power. Grief, that instead of healing from would go on to determine every decision the pair made down the line, destroying any and all potential they’d once had and all the plans and hope their parents had once had for them. 

They’d all been wrong.

They’d once been convinced the Dark Lord and his cause, despite all the warnings and precautions their parents had given them, would be the path to a life of luxury, safety; the path to metaphorical immortality in the world they’d helped build. Dolphus had been sentenced to life in Azkaban a second time, Bastan had taken his own life before they’d had the chance, and Narcissa couldn’t remember either of their last moments. 

It hurt to remember what used to be, and Narcissa wondered if despite her anxiety around them she should be grateful she had no such memories of the second war. Her healer told her it was possible for her memories to return, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she should really want them to when the memories she had left caused so much pain already. 

“We were young, desperate fools with something to prove and something to protect,” Narcissa spoke, a bitter undertone in creeping up in her voice and how ridiculously stupid her past self had been. “If we’d known even half of the price we’d pay, of how wrong we’d turn out to be… None of us would have thought twice about getting involved. To this day it is my deepest regret.”


End file.
